Search Warrant

A federal judge granted me this warrant to search all of your property and belongings for items that might strike me as offensive. So, first, I ask you to step out of your vehicle; for I pulled you over while you were driving to work this morning. I ask you to spread your legs and put your hands on the hood of the car. Then I place my flashlight in my mouth and carefully look inside the pockets of your tan slacks. “Nothing here,” I murmur. Then I climb into your vehicle and open the glove box. “What’s this, a purse?” I say. “Why do you have a purse in your glove compartment? Did you steal it?” 

“Men can own purses — they’re not exclusively feminine.” 

“Hmm, that’s true,” I admit with a frown; “I, too, carry a purse wherever I go. Your point is granted.” 

Next, we visit your house. I legally snoop around in all of your kitchen cabinets, your bedroom closet, and a wicker basket; but I find nothing other than totally wholesome evidence. However, right when I’m ready to give up my search, the last room that I visit proves to be a treasure trove of obscenity: 

Pinned to the wall is a page apparently torn from a magazine — it’s a photo of a female pop star in a V-neck T-shirt; she is sitting on a car hood, wearing tight jeans and holding her legs farther apart than any reasonable person would dare to position them. “Oh, this is bad,” I remark: “you’re going down.” Then I haul you off to prison.